


I Knew What I Had When It Left

by ohalfnoxious



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Oneshot, daichi dies spoiler alert, i shit this out in order to procrastinate doing actual work im sorry, im so sorry, suga is not specifically mentioned but he narrates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 10:05:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohalfnoxious/pseuds/ohalfnoxious
Summary: The final few hours.





	I Knew What I Had When It Left

There is a common trope in the world of writing that has entranced us as a species since the very beginnings of dramatic storytelling. _I didn’t know what I had until it was gone_ is oft used to describe the loss of one’s lover or companion in the sense of a strong emotional shift. Of a sudden, one finds that their love is all dried up, or that there was a mistake made on either side that cut the ties between two people that loved each other. Perhaps the person experiencing the loss did not truly love the other, but found later that they had missed the opportunity of their lifetime. Whatever the case, the trope is heart-wrenching and gives those who participate in it a feeling of excruciating uncertainty in the future, never knowing whether or not the choice to say goodbye is the right one.

However, I did know what I had when it was ripped out of my hands. I sat trembling in a cold aluminum chair at the side of a bed, shifting my body in anxious prayer for some miracle to give me five more minutes with him, because I _did_ know what I had. How could I not have? Even now, the very thought of his name elicits soft, buoyant memories that exert the same warmth and joy that he did. Of course, there are tears, just as there were in that cold room and the similar ones that came before it. The tears only quickened each time he would brush his fingers against my own, trying to reassure me. Looking back, I see that unlike myself, he was not hoping for a miracle, but for my eventual recovery from this disaster, which now only makes me long for him further.

At around 2:00 AM, he stopped responding to my hands and my sobs, although his then brittle chest still rose and fell. (His chest was, once upon a happier time, warm and supple and strong.) As much as I attempted to get him to respond to me, he did not. The nurse that rushed in informed me in a quiet voice that he was asleep, and that I could potentially wake him up if I wished, but he would only stay awake for a few minutes before falling asleep again, and would likely not survive past that unless put on life support. One would think that, faced with the challenging decision to prolong his existence for a few hours more or to have one last conversation with him, I would spend some time brooding. This was not the case. I woke him as they instructed, and watched through eyes blurry from the tears that were now permanent residents there as the man that I loved blinked himself awake and took a long, shuddering breath. If the mask were to be removed from his mouth and the gown were to be stripped from his body in favor of a ratty old t-shirt, I could have convinced myself that it was just another morning, and that those bags under his dark, tender eyes were just from a night of celebration and drinking we had shared with our friends.

“How do you feel?”

He said it. It took me a moment to compose myself (or at least compose myself in relative terms, considering the fact that I hadn’t had a single ounce of composure for the past two weeks) before I could meet his eyes again. I was forced to look away once more at the sight of the very real tears slipping down his cheeks, and could not, for the longest time, find the right words to say, or how to say them.

“I feel lost,” I whispered, voice cracking on the last _st_ of the phrase. By some witchery, he smiled at me through the rubber mask, and although it was weak and didn’t quite reach the rest of his features, the sight took a sledgehammer to the remains of my already shattered heart.

We sat together for what felt like hours, crying, staring into each other’s eyes, and rubbing our clammy fingers together like schoolchildren on a December playground. In reality, a few minutes passed before he began to mutter softly under his breath, taking my hand and guiding my fingers up to where his dark hair sat mussed on top of his head. His words in that moment are treasures I will keep to myself until the day I die, because there was no one else but me and him in that moment, and his secrets and sorrows and hopes and dreams are gifts that were given to me alone. True love is knowing the aspirations and passions of a dead man.

He drifted off to sleep once more, except this time, his breathing slowed, and the monitor next to the bed began to sound out something like an alarm. A herd of people rushed into the room, and I was ushered to a corner where I sat in numb silence. My eyes wandered the room, but found no solace. Eventually, I turned my attention to the outside world, visible through a full-size window next to where I was seated. The world was dark, and a few lone street lights lit the subtle scenery of late nighttime. No birds dared to sing, no animals dared to scuffle save those who thrived in this kind of nocturnal heaven. Focusing on counting the leaves of the trees below helped me to ignore the chaos behind me, and more importantly, the dying form of the love of my life.

And then, all of a sudden, it was just me, two sympathetic-looking nurses, and a man on his deathbed. My memory is hazy, but I either stood of my own accord, or was helped up by one of the women. Tears began to fall unabashedly from my eyes at the sight of him, my Daichi, lying there with his eyes shut. He was barely breathing. I wanted nothing more than to cradle him in my arms as I sobbed, so I did. Everyone in a 20-mile radius could hear my wails, but I did not give a damn. Just the fact that he was in my arms, dying in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to stop it, gave way to a flood of grief.

The pain I felt and still feel today is not easy to put into words. In that moment, I felt like I had fallen off a ship at sea and I was desperately clinging to a thin scrap of fabric that was my only escape from watery hell. Slowly, with each new breath I took, the fabric began to tear, until I was drowning, drowning, drowning. Alternatively, I felt as if I was lying in a flowery meadow with him, happy and untouched by sorrow, soon realizing that he was ebbing farther and farther away from me and that I was chained to the ground by thick, unbreakable vines.

And just like that, he was gone.

Just like that, he was gone.

Just like that, he was gone.

Just like that, he was gone, and there were no oceans or meadows.

There was only myself and a dead man that was once Sawamura Daichi, in a freezing, dark hospital room. A group of doctors and nurses rushed in, yes, but there was only me and him.

Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading my shitty fic.  
> im gonna be real w yall this is the first oneshot and the first heavy angst fic i have ever written but i wanted to vent so i did.  
> sorry not sorry


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